


here to collect your heart

by MistressKat



Series: in the dark dark [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, The Young Blood Chronicles - Fall Out Boy (Music Video)
Genre: Blood, Dark, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, implied vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: “I remember the way you taste,” Patrick says. “I remember the way you bled.”
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: in the dark dark [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/63479
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	here to collect your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowhive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowhive/gifts).



> When shadowhive gave me the prompt ‘Patrick and blood’ I knew it could only be one thing. I’m sorry it didn’t end up being porn, not really, but hopefully dark!Patrick will make up to it… Title from lyrics of _Where Did The Party Go._ This is a bit of an alternative ending to the music video. Mind the warnings.

What comes through the door is not Patrick.  
  
_No._ What comes through is no longer _a man._ But it _is_ Patrick.  
  
And that’s worse.  
  
“ _Peeeeter_ ,” he croons. The voice is unchanged, low but not soft, quiet but with the kind of power behind it that makes hairs at the back of Pete’s neck stand out, makes his dick swell in his grimy jeans. Even now, even here.  
  
That hasn’t changed either.  
  
“ _There_ you are.”  
  
Here he is, curled into a corner because there is nowhere else to go.  
  
Pete tilts his head back and makes himself look at Patrick – properly, at length, not just fleeting, terrified glances – for the firs time since… Since.  
  
“Trick,” he says, and the word breaks on his lips, shattering hot and sharp like freshly blown glass. “What did they do to you?”  
  
It’s a rhetorical question, of course it is, but Patrick answers.  
  
“Made me anew,” he says, crouching low. There’s blood on his face. Pete is pretty sure it’s not Patrick’s. “Made me _hungry_.”  
  
Pete’s whole body jerks away like he’s been slapped, even though Patrick hasn’t touched him.  
  
Yet.  
  
“ _Shhh_ ,” Patrick whispers. It comes out in a hiss, long and sibilant. “ _Shhhhhhh_. Pete…” And now he reaches out, fingers trailing over Pete’s cheek, slick with something that could be sweat or blood but is probably something worse. “I missed you. Why did you run away? I remember…”  
  
His eyes go glassy, distant, and the yellow in them fades, just for a moment.  
  
Pete lies there, trembling under Patrick’s hand, and prays. Not to God, not really, just an endless litany of _pleasepleaseplease, let him come back, I want him back, I want…_  
  
But when Patrick’s eyes snap back into focus they are the colour of bile and when he smiles his incisors look like they could tear flesh from bone.  
  
“I remember the way you taste,” Patrick says. His _hook_ – and Pete sobs at that, Patrick’s lovely _hand_ , the way it would coax music out of any instrument, coax pleasure out of Pete – snags the collar of Pete’s shirt and jerks him upwards. “I remember the way you bled.”  
  
It’s true, it’s true. He _had_ , from scratches along his back that had cut just a bit too deep, from a cut on his lip, of his own doing for crashing their mouths together like a pileup. _Sorry_ , Patrick had said, sheepish and laughing and so beautiful it had hurt to look at him, _I’m sorry._ And Pete had swiped the blood with his fingers, licked them clean and watched Patrick’s gaze grow heavy and dark with lust. _No, no,_ he’d said, breathless and wanting, _I like it. I like it._  
  
The fabric of Pete’s shirt stretches, rips. His chest underneath is heaving, deep hitching breaths of panic, a desperate mix of fear and love closing his throat like a fist.  
  
“You promised this was mine,” Patrick says, undeterred. His palm presses over Pete’s pounding heart.  
  
This is also true. He’d meant it too. Means it still.  
  
Patrick’s breath is hot, sweet and bitter like burnt sugar. His fingers curl down, claws pressing in.  
  
_In._  
  
Pete closes his eyes.  



End file.
